


Remembering

by neverfaltering



Series: After [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Bucky Barnes, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfaltering/pseuds/neverfaltering
Summary: *can be read as standalone*He can sometimes find short versions of Bucky within him, like when he’ll catch himself at the cotton candy stand, buying one cone instead of two. It’s still expensive, and tastes a lot less worthy. He remembers it being fluffier. Pinker. He finds himself when he’ll wander museums, in search of nothing in particular. And when he’ll braid Natasha’s hair, the trifling talent that’s still muscle memory."Sometimes, life hits us with obstacles. But they always pass, Buck. You gotta promise me you’ll remember that." Bucky didn’t promise her anything. He was never any good at promises. As he lays there on his bed, clad with crisp white sheets that bring him a sort of small comfort, he thinks he did good, remembering what his ma said. He didn’t promise, but he did remember.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi....sorry this took a while. technical issues. hopefully u guys love this bc im really proud of it. its also my longest ever. im really happy with it! 
> 
> just to give u some brief overview so u arent confused:
> 
> -this is part of a series, but can be read alone  
> -in case it gets confusing, the point of view is bucky basically in the recovery phase and is trying to get through it by being glad the bad times in his life are over. he's reminiscing kind of...except the memories aren't always the happiest  
> \- theres happy endings though! or at least resolved ones.  
> -please enjoy! i worked super hard

Sometimes Bucky looks back at his life and thinks to the times when he thought it hard- he figures it’s a good coping technique for his life right now. One day he’ll look back at his present life and be glad it’s over.

It’s a good technique, really.

He remembers poverty as a little boy. He remembers thinking it was the worst period of his life. Little Bucky had a lot to learn about the world and perspectives.

He’s really gotta hand it to his mother, though, the lovely Winifred Barnes. She tried her best to make sure his sister’s and his tummies were full. She played her own hunger off, leaving more for her kids, but Bucky was Constantly Hungry, and Constantly Hungry children tend to have Sharper Eyes. Sharper Eyes for food that would be scrap, food he could sneak home. It were those things he saw with those eyes that led him to lie to his mother every evening.

“I swear, Ma, I’m full. If I eat another piece of bread, I’m going to burst,” and then he would put his piece of stale bread back on the dish while his stomach begged for more. His mother wouldn’t eat it until much later in the night, when she was sure he didn’t want it.

It helped him sleep better at night. _Maybe I’ll never be full,_ he often thought, _but it’s better for three half-full tummies than one full one._

Becca soon gained her own set of sharp eyes, and she used them a lot better than Bucky did. Got a part-time job as an apprentice for the local tailor, bought home some money. They still didn’t eat to their full, but three stomachs three-fourths full were still better than one full. While his sister was smart and knew where to put use her skills, Bucky was a lot worse off.

He regrets not being a better older brother.

Sure, he took her to the movies when _Peter Pan_ came out. And he sat with her when she’d have a friend-break up. He was much too macho for physically wiping away tears, but he did make sure to bring her a treat, usually vanilla ice cream. Her favorite was cotton candy, though. He’d get it for her more often except it was pricey for some reason. It was just spun sugar, he didn’t understand. Still doesn’t.

He gave her his food when he saw the look in her eyes, the look you wouldn’t see if you weren’t a child with Sharper Eyes. It was a defeated sight, something that came when Ma made something particularly good. (Lemon-spiced chicken with rice) It was a tint of duller blue in her irises that wished for seconds but knew it was too costly.

He learned how to make her hair for every morning. That came upon as a result of his mother dragging herself out of bed every morning, constantly sleep deprived but pushing herself to get her kids looking tidy. He didn’t like seeing her like that every day, and he put it on himself to not wake her up until they were about to leave the house.

When her hair got longer, Becca didn’t ask him anymore, but Bucky knew it wasn’t because she was she thought she was too old to have her hair made by her older brother, but because of how no girls around town wore pigtails anymore. She knew it took him a while to learn pigtails in the first place. So Bucky asked Johnny, a boy who learned how to braid from his older sister.

A few days later, he called Becca over and asked her to sit. He grabbed a comb and began brushing, when his sister stopped him.

“It’s okay, Buck, I know how to do it now. You don’t have to.”

“Just let me.”

She relented, because Bucky Barnes used to be trustworthy.

He played with her hair in his hands. He was gentle with her brown locks, because he knew that Ma was a bit rougher and Becca liked it when he did it the way he did. He pulled this way and that, over and under, with hands that had performed this task a dozen times on Becca’s dolls (secretly) to get it perfect. He was done within a couple of minutes, and gave her a mirror.

He’s forgotten a lot of things in his life, like how the lemon-spiced chicken tasted, and how his ma’s hugs felt, but he feels like he may never forget the look on his sister’s face when she saw the elegant French braid in the mirror.

“Buck, how did you…,” she had said dumbfoundedly, smoothing it over and touching it in different places.

“A master never tells his secrets,” he grinned.

Becca started asking him to make her hair again after that.

All those things that he did, though, they were just _older brother_ things. Things that were expected of you. He never went out of the ordinary. He never took her on a long road trip like Tom had with his sister. He would have, if he could, but even though he was less of a Constantly Hungry child, he still had to help out with money for different things now. And he could never become the older brother he wanted to be.

There was a terrible time in his life where he could have gotten her killed.

He was out with Steve, only Steve being the goody two shoes that he was, found himself in a scrap only after a couple of minutes of being missing. He ran out of the halls of the party they had found themselves in, with Steve up against two older, bigger guys.

“Doesn’t concern ya, kid, get out of our sights,” the larger of the men grumbled. He threw a punch to punctuate his sentence, only Steve dodged and hit him with an uppercut.

“Don’t get physical.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. You started it, and I won’t leave until you scram,” Steve bit back.

“Steve.” Bucky came up from behind him. “Let’s leave. Don’t need anymore problems.”

This seemed to push the men to pounce on them, catching Bucky and Steve unexpectedly in their thoughts. Bucky was smashed against the brick wall, his face immediately taking impact. The metallic taste was much too familiar as it dripped down his lips, entangling within his hair. Bucky attempted to fight back, even got in a punch or two, but he was clearly no match for them. The men seemed to think that this was going on for too long, for they pinned them both to the ground, their calloused, bloody-knuckled hands wrapping around wrists that couldn’t win.

There seemed to be a pause in time, where the punches stopped and a sweet voice piped, enough to distract their attackers for a mere moment. Bucky struggled to hoist himself what with the force on his arm to see what had happened.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw her face from around the corner. “Bucky?” she asked, a cautious tone seeping into her voice when she saw the unfamiliar faces.

 _No, no,_ he thought. _Please. Not her._

“Ma said I could probably find you ‘round the party. She said to come home, it’s getting late.” She stood there expectantly with her cheesy grin, as if he could leave in the middle of whatever mess this was.

“Look who we got here,” one of them sneered, and walked over to her.

“Get away from her! Becca, _run!_ ” He had never felt more helpless in his life. Steve and him were both pinned on the ground and his sister was now in danger because he couldn’t make curfew.

 _I’m terrible,_ his brain shouted. _I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate myself._

The man picked up Becca as if she weighed nothing and glared into her terrified eyes.

“Don’t touch her!” he screamed frantically, thrashing this way and that. _“Don’t. Even. Look. At. Her!”_

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll knock your teeth in,” the man sneered, forcing both Steve and himself to look at his face. Steve showed something next to no emotion on his outward appearance, although Bucky could see the crease in between his eyebrows.

Becca looked at him, tears pooling in her eyes. She screamed with a shrillness that didn’t seem loud enough.

It was at that moment that people started peering into the alleyway, concerned for a couple of neighborhood kids.

“Hey!” He heard a gruff voice, and he knew that was the end of it. The men left, but not without aggressively pulling Becca by her hair and giving her a shiner. They looked to them once more.

“Hopefully you lot learned your lesson,” they said, grinning their sick way and leaving.

Bucky saw red. He couldn’t think. He scrambled to his feet, even though he knew he was hurting too much for his body to be able to do that. Becca was still lying there, her hair out of its normal braid and her face bloodied and dirtied beyond belief. He rushed over to her, brushing the hair out of her face.

“Becca, look at me. Please,” he pleaded with her. She had shut her eyes.“I’m sorry, _I’m so, so sorry._ You okay?” He could feel tears running down his cheeks, even though he knew she would be okay with just a little tidying.

She looked up at him and grimaced. “Who were they?” she asked after looking around confusedly. She took in his big blue eyes and near-shrieked. “Go check on Stevie, Buck!”

Bucky looked to where her eyes had gone to. In his haste for his sister’s wellbeing, he had completely ignored Steve, who had endured the brunt of the fight, without a doubt. Steve blinked back at him, one of his eyes slightly closed due to swelling. “She okay?”

“Will be.”

He scooped her up in his arms, even though she was far too big for that. “Gonna take you home,” he smiled at her, “And get a beating from Ma.” Her lips turned up the slightest, but it was a futile attempt. She was far more shaken than she let on.

He looked over his shoulder. “Steve? Can you follow, or should I come back to be _your_ ride?” He winked at him.

Steve got up gingerly, his hand over his ribs. “Nah. Think I can manage.”

 _What a sight we must be_ , Bucky thought to himself. _Like we’re coming back from war._

His ma nearly passed out at the sight of them entering. “We’re good,” he quickly got out. “Gotta clean this girl up, though.” Her mouth was left ajar, but she took her from his arms to get cleaned up.

He wetted a washcloth and handed it to Steve. “Here. I’ll get you some ice for your eye.”

He didn’t miss the wince that came when Steve reached up for the cloth. His hand instantly shot to his stomach area. Bucky gave him a careful glance. “Ma’ll check that out for ya after she’s done with Becca.” He placed a pillow behind him and pushed him at the shoulder. “Lie back. We’ll get out of this.”

Winifred appeared at the door, her eyes even more sunken in, if that was possible.

“She alright?”

“Yeah. What about you? Got anything I need to look at?”

“Just a couple scrapes, nothing big. You gotta check on him, though,” he jerked his thumb towards Steve, who seemed to have dozed off. She moved over to her own son first, clasping him in a hug that ended too quick. Her fingers grazed over his cheek for a moment before she attended to Steve.

She walked over to him, prodding his cheek. Bucky took the time to head to the bedroom, where he found Becca asleep, a bandage placed cleanly on her forehead. Once at her bed, he took her hand in his own. He felt he might break it if he squeezed, so he only held it limply.  Her usual chubby cheeks seemed to be deflated, making her look older than she was.

“Sorry,” he whispered, even though she felt like the dead. He brought her hand to his lips and pecked it gently. He didn’t know when it started, but the tears started flowing again. Everything had caught up with him. _She’s going to hate me,_ his mind said, over and over. _Couldn’t do the one job I had._

His ma found him like that after what seemed like hours, but was probably only mere minutes. With his head in between his knees and his shoulders shaking with the weight of the world, his right hand still grasping his sister’s loosely, she saw through him crystal clear.

“Buck,” she said softly. “I won’t ask you to explain just yet, but I know you probably did everything you could to stop it from happening.” She tried to hold him close to her chest, but his stiffness wasn’t allowing for it. She resorted to pulling his head into her lap, where she wiped at his never-ending tears. “Sometimes, life hits us with obstacles. But they always pass, Buck. You gotta promise me you’ll remember that. _”_ He didn’t know what exactly she was referring to, but he took solace in the words. He did.

 

He takes it that he wasn’t a worthy older brother. You’d think, that this would make him more of a mama’s boy, but he wasn’t that either. Sure, he’d bring Ma peonies on Mother’s Day, her favorite flower, kissed her before he left for work and before he slept, and complimented her food on the daily, but he doubts he was ever the son she had wanted him to be. He wasn’t particularly good at anything, tried his best but rarely succeeded, still mostly depended on her, emotionally and physically.  

And then, you know, he sort of ditched her when he enlisted.

It wasn’t that she was _against_ it, but her terms with Bucky enlisting were “you can go if you come back,” which was sort of a crappy deal in the first place, but Bucky wasn’t going to back out. It was _war_ , after all, and anyone without a proper excuse who stayed back would be deemed a coward.

Bucky was a lot of things, but he made sure _coward_ was never one of them.

He managed to convince her that he’d come back, and well, everyone knows how _that_ worked out.

He never said he was good at promises.

War was… well, _war._ There’d never be a word that could fully grasp what war actually was. War wasn’t something your tongue could grasp, it could only be seen and experienced by your own two eyes.

There were bad days and good-well, mostly bad, to be honest, but there were times when he’d be sitting around a fire with his men and thought, _maybe I did the right thing._

But Bucky’s coping, isn’t he. He’s going to look back on the bad days and be glad those were over. It’s how he can deal best with what he’s got now.

It’s hazy in Bucky’s mind, but there was a week at camp that convinced him he was dying. They had stopped at one of the coldest camps on their route. So much that even Steve, a super soldier, started feeling the effects. He ordered everyone to stop and make camp there. Bucky didn’t want to stop, because stopping made it so much harder to get back on the road. He wasn’t going to complain out loud, though. A break was a break.

It was the _night_ that came with it, with winds so biting and fierce that he couldn’t feel his own face after a couple minutes. All the men huddled, but the warmth was hard to come by.

He remembers trying to will himself to sleep for hours. He remembers being plagued by the crying faces of his ma and sister. He remembers wishing for death when it felt like the night would never end. He remembers being absolutely _miserable._

It might have been around early morning when he heard a whisper to his left.

“Barnes.”

He looked over to see Morita giving him a concerned look.

“Yeah?” he responded.

“You awake?”

“No.”

“You certainly look dead.”

“Same goes for ya, pal.”

“No...you look downright awful, Barnes. I‘m going to get Steve.” Morita walked towards the entrance of the tent.

“Morita...,” he paused. “Don’t, ‘m just real cold.” He didn’t want to disturb a probably-sleeping Steve. He was the captain after all, and needed his rest.

Dugan looked up at him. “Let him go. You look like a ghost.” Morita went out after that, presumably to fetch Steve, Bucky wasn’t really awake. He began to feel self aware after the comments, and realized he was feeling hot and cold at the same time.

“Dugan.”

“Go to sleep, Barnes.”

“Want an extra coat? Feel really hot all of a sudden.”

“Keep it on ya. It’s the fever talkin.’”

“Ain’t runnin’ a fever, ‘m just warmed up now.”

“It’s in the negatives outside, you’re runnin’ a fever. Don’t argue with me now.”

Bucky didn’t. He had the sudden urge to let go of everything in his stomach, as if speaking a few words was enough to bring last night’s dinner up.

 _Dinner_. More like crackers and water, but in that moment in time, he was grateful for the lack of food. His head had began to spin and breathing seemed to take all his energy, coming in wet, ragged breaths.

“Hey, hey. Buck. Up here.” Steve’s face was hovering above him, his features etched in concern. It seemed like there were two Steves, but that couldn’t be. Only one guy out there like Steve Rogers.

His eyes must have had a sheen to them, because he was crowded by his men in no time.

“Get a wet rag, Jones,” Morita commanded. “Falsworth, an ice bucket. I’m going to go figure out how much time we got until we’re off running to the next stop. He ain’t gonna get better moving around so much.”

The men scurried this way and that, making him feel dizzy. His world kept spinning. This was probably what dying was like.

“I think I’m dying.”

This earned him a few laughs but he couldn’t tell what was so funny. He was genuinely convinced that a fever was going to be the way he went. He shut his eyes.

“Won’t be laughin’ when I die, boys.”

Steve grinned at him, although it was one of those weird smiles he did when he used to be too sickly to respond. He wiped his forehead with a cool cloth, making Bucky realize how hot he was feeling. He started shrugging off the various clothes and blankets draped on him.

“Sit back, Sarge,” a voice that sounded like Dernier came.

“Tired of sitting.”

“Then lay back and go to sleep.”

Steve helped him lay down, but that simple movement was enough for his stomach to lurch. He didn’t remember a time he felt worse. Breathing heavily, he turned on his side and groaned. A bucket was plopped near him. He said a nearly silent _thanks._

He didn’t know when sleep came, or why it decided that it should finally make an appearance _now,_ but he appreciated it all the same. He woke up what seemed like seconds later to someone tapping him repeatedly on the cheek.

“Sarge, we gotta go. It’s going to be rough but they don’t wanna stay here any longer. I’ll help you up.” Dugan pulled upwards, hauling his arm over his shoulder. He let nearly all his weight fall onto his friend. He’d repay Dugan later.

They hauled him on to the truck, where they left him with a man on watch. He still felt nauseous with every hitch in the road, but the firm hands that rustled his hair helped him focus. _Just like Ma,_ he thought. He might have fallen asleep, but he was having a hard time with reality these days.

What he did know, was that when he stumbled out of his stupor, it was the first time he felt okay in a while. With his men around him and Steve smiling at his better state, he felt good. He felt like maybe, his ma wasn’t joking when she said that bad times always passed. Perhaps he was being dramatic with that saying, it was _just_ a fever after all. He was at war now, though. He felt it justified to use his ma’s sayings whenever he felt it necessary.

Bucky thinks. He thinks a lot. He lays in bed, pondering over the _what if’s_ of his life. _What if I had stayed closer with the group? What if Steve never found me? What if I didn’t fall off the train? What if Zola never found me? Would I still be the same person?_

He knows, though. He knows. That of all the _what if’s_  he has in his life, if the ones concerning Zola weren’t there, he wouldn’t be the same. He would be fuller, happier, with no bruises under his eyes from the nightmares. He would be the same Bucky. Maybe a little banged up, a little bruised, but the same nonetheless. Nothing that time couldn’t fix.

He remembers it clear as day. The day his life was separated into _Before_ and _After._ The day he met Arnim Zola.

Dernier had called for them to come closer. He always was the one with better senses, especially on the battlefield, where hearing a step could mean the difference between life and death. Bucky had obeyed him. It was only when a blast sounded from his right that he dared move an inch away from his team to investigate. It had led him down a long, winding hallway, with scattered lanterns here and there. It wasn’t scary. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. He crept along the passageways, his eyes ever the most alert. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a cockroach scurried by. It was the cockroach that made him realize, that the person who snuck up behind him with a cloth soaked with chloroform was an incredibly skilled soldier, experienced beyond the average battlefield. There was no other way he couldn’t have heard the footsteps. He instantly fell into a hazy state of mind, In a distant way, he was aware of what had happened. They were told of chloroform and its various effects in training. It escaped him how he couldn’t have seen it coming, but that was only one of the first of many surprises Zola carried for him.

He remembers waking up disoriented, but calm. He attempted to move his arms and legs, only to be met with the sight of straps. He realized how deep they had dug into his skin when the pain of bare rope set in. A face came swimming into view.

“Soldier.”

Bucky thinks he might have grunted or said _hello,_ even, considering the state of mind he was in.

“You are awake, soldier. We have much in store for you. You will be among one of the best there is,” he said. It was cryptic, Bucky thought. Spoken in near-whispers _._

A secret.

He didn’t understand what he was being reassured about, but there was something he didn’t trust about the man. Perhaps it was his cold, staring grey eyes, or his lab coat that gleamed white, like the doctors at the hospital they took Steve to. Or his perfect teeth, with his raspy voice. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t safe here. He had to get out.

_Out._

Bucky attempted to look like he was falling back to sleep. Perhaps it would guarantee him a short-lived peace, if not forever. He blinked slowly, his eyes unmoving, nearly mastering the old passed-out trick of his childhood. It seemed to work when the voice begin to fade away over the tinkering of machinery, realizing it was no use talking to the soldier anymore. Bucky shut his eyes eventually, and slept.

He awoke to a sight, none other than Steve Rogers at his side. He was much bigger, stronger too, and wait- _what drugs am I even on?_ The drugs didn’t take away from Steve’s clear blue eyes, the same as ever. It comforted Bucky, that eyes never seemed to age.

“It’s me,” he panted. He must have run down the corridor. “Steve. Thought you were dead.” He tried to hoist him off the bed, unbeknownst to the restraints.

“Thought you were bigger,” Bucky managed a grin. Steve had located the ropes, and was beginning to snap them off. He could feel his friend’s strength through the strapping, the twine ripping apart. He pushed him up this time, nearly all the strength his own. Bucky had none left, seemingly countless hours of being tied down wearing him of his usual strength. He clung on to Steve as he helped him stand, vertigo overtaking his senses.

“I’ve got you, c’mon, Buck. Arm around me, we gotta go.” He placed his arm around Steve’s neck, not used to the sudden change in his frame. He was going to have to ask about that later on.

The binding had weakened his muscle strength, forcing Bucky to have to depend on Steve to get him out of there. He hobbled his way out with Steve anxiously looking him over.

“Alright?” He asked after a couple steps.

“Will be,” Bucky managed to say. His legs felt like they were burning, an unhealthy mixture of fear and adrenaline.

“Everyone okay?”

He got a nod out of Steve, which usually meant things weren’t looking too good. Once out of the building, Steve sat him down with a medic to get ointment rubbed on the affected areas. The skin had burned off in places, and applying something to it was one of the most painful things Bucky had experienced. The woman didn’t stop at the sounds of Bucky hissing in pain, eager to finish the job. His face must have spoken volumes, because it wasn’t long before he felt a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to Earth.

“Hey. Easy, Buck. Wanna hold my hand?” There was that grin, the same as ever. He had a playful tone but he grabbed Bucky’s palm and held it all the same. Bucky laid his head against the tent pole behind him, closing his eyes.

He was in pain, but he was out of the hands of the man. That was enough for now.

                                                ***

Bucky lays on his bed, his mind everywhere and nowhere all at once. In front of him, he sees his life in flashes, fleeting glimpses that leave him craving for his old life, the life where he was broken and damaged, but still _Bucky Barnes._

Now, he is safe, they say. Always, people are trying to tell him, _comfort_ him by saying _you’re safe, you’re safe._ And Bucky gets that, he does. _They_ don’t.

He’s safe from the hands that pricked his skin over and over, safe from their cold, emotionless eyes, safe from people who made him something he’s not. But he isn’t _safe_ from his own _mind,_ which tortures him more than anything could. He isn’t _safe_ from the nightmares, isn’t _safe_ from his metal arm, which seems to glare back at him, reminding him of the life he never wanted to live.

The arm.

The people who wanted to help him would constantly prod about it, saying things like _you want us to spray over the star? It would only take a second._ Or _would you want us to make the metal plates inconspicuous?_

 _No_ , _thank you very much,_ Bucky would glare. Painting over a stupid star wasn’t going to bring him back. Wasn’t going to make him suddenly remember all that he used to be. Wasn’t going to be anything but a stupid way of trying to cover up what made him what he was today. Pretending that it could be a “new start,” as they called it, was nothing short of misinformed on what recovery was really like. It certainly wasn’t painting over mistakes.

He’s bitter. Bitter beyond belief.

 _You didn’t used to be this way_ , Bucky hears in between the words spoken to him.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry you miss my old self. I don’t know him anymore. Maybe you’ll find him one day._

It’s like people are always talking about themselves when they speak to him. Always trying to find solace in the words he’s supposed to reply to. Always trying to fix themselves as much as he needs fixing.

 _You didn’t go through that,_ Bucky always wants to say. _I did. I’m supposed to be the one bawling my eyes out, trying to become what I was. Instead, my shoulder’s soaked with your tears. Get a hold of it._ I’m _trying._

And he sits there, trying to comfort someone who was crying over _his_ problems. _His_ life. How do you help someone find peace with a life that’s your own? He had yet to find that for himself.

He can sometimes find short versions of Bucky within him, like when he’ll catch himself at the cotton candy stand, buying one cone instead of two. It’s still expensive, and tastes a lot less worthy. He remembers it being fluffier. Pinker.

He finds himself when he’ll wander museums, in search of nothing in particular. And when he’ll braid Natasha’s hair, the trifling talent that’s still muscle memory.

_Sometimes, life hits us with obstacles. But they always pass, Buck. You gotta promise me you’ll remember that._

Bucky didn’t promise her anything. He was never any good at promises.

As he lays there on his bed, clad with crisp white sheets that bring him a sort of small comfort, he thinks he did good, remembering what his ma said. He didn’t promise, but he did remember. .

He’s calm, waiting for this to pass.

It always does.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i love comments and stuff so you should leave them if u have time ! :D maybe tell me stuff you want to see if i continue this series? (which i will continue if i come up with enough material)


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